


Rose-tinted Glasses

by Niitza



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bucky Barnes: Part-Time Gay Disaster, Crack, Experimenting With Narrative Formats, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sibling Rivalry, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 21:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19117600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niitza/pseuds/Niitza
Summary: It all started because of Becca.





	Rose-tinted Glasses

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this song by Joe Dassin, called "Le petit pain au chocolat."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=8&v=A_8g3df4zcI) My contribution was to change the setting from a bakery to a coffee shop and make it gay :P
> 
> A thousand thanks to [Layersofsilence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/layersofsilence/pseuds/layersofsilence) for being a captive audience when I started sketching out the fic and for the beta once I had finally managed to finish it. It helped a lot :')

It all started because of Becca.

One might even say that it all started _thanks_ to Becca—except that saying this would come _way_ too close to expressing gratitude for how things had turned out, which…yeah, would never happen. Not on Bucky's watch.

See, the Barnes siblings had a peculiar relationship. Of course they did: they were twins. But not in the "we're so close that it looks like we have some sort of telepathic connection" way—that one applied to Bucky's colleagues at the coffee shop, Wanda and Pietro. No, he and Becca were twins in the sense that they'd come to the conclusion early on that they were basically two versions of the same person, and that it was crucial for them to determine and prove which one of them was The Best One.

What it boiled down to was this: they were disturbingly competitive. Had been for as far as they could remember—and had remained so even after biology class had taught them that, being fraternal twins, they did not actually have the exact same genetic material. They did not care about such insignificant details. What they _did_ care about was finding new things over which to compete.

Through the years those had grown many and varied. It had started on the playground, with battling over who could go higher on a swing or find the best name for a teddy bear. It had continued all through their school years, with them fighting to see who would get the higher grades, or be better at sports, or have the larger amount of friends, or be more active in a number of clubs, or get more glowing recommendations from their teachers, and so on. At times the situation had grown so fierce that the school board would probably have interfered…had the first discipline of their private Olympics not been all about who could go the furthest without anyone noticing a thing. So no one ever had. In everyone's eyes no siblings got along better than the Barneses. Even their parents were fooled; or maybe they weren't, but still didn't care, because their children's ruthless rivalry had always meant that they were the best behaved kids of the whole neighborhood, in a way that had made all the other parents green with jealousy.

(Winifred and George Barnes had never pitted their children against each other, but you'd be safe betting that the apples didn't fall far from the tree.)

Adulthood had opened up entire scores of new possibilities. For Winifred and George Barnes, things had never been better: now Bucky and Becca competed over who would drop by the most often, who would bring the most beautiful flowers or the tastiest sweets to family dinners, who would buy the best presents for anniversaries, who would help the most with cleaning, with small repairs, with cooking, with doing the dishes, with _everything_. But they also tried to outdo each other in their studies, their careers, their housing situations, their romantic lives—and that's where Bucky's problem had started. Because right now?

Right now, Becca was winning.

On all scores.

She'd graduated law school at the top of her class, while he, after a brief stint in the army, was struggling through night and weekend nursing classes. She'd become an associate at a prestigious law firm straight away, while he was stuck serving coffee for minimum wage to make ends meet. She'd just bought a nice apartment in fucking Brooklyn Heights, while he was down to renting a shitty glorified closet all the way over in fucking _Canarsie_. And now— _now_ , the a cherry on top of the already enormous cake—she had a boyfriend, with whom things were going so well that she was introducing him to the parents, while Bucky was still resolutely, desperately single.

So yeah, she was pretty much crushing him. Which was… _unacceptable_.

What was even _more_ unacceptable was how aware of her headway Becca was, and how much she delighted in rubbing it in his face. Oh, how he regretted the time back when she'd been nothing but an overworked, overstressed mess of a pre-law student, and he'd spent much of his leaves lording his nifty, steady paycheck and shiny sergeant chevrons over her. Or, he would've regretted it, but at the time he'd been the one pulling ahead: he'd had all the rights. Too bad his last mission had gone up in flames—literally—and with it his chances at a brilliant career. So now he was the one on the receiving end of smug smiles thrown when no one was looking, of falsely solicitous questions about his non-existent love life.

"It makes no sense," Becca said.

"You're such a looker," she said.

"But if you want—I mean, in between your studies and your job you definitely don't have much time to meet new people, so if you want to get a date I know _just_ the guy," she said.

And okay, there was a lot to unpack there.

  1. If Bucky had to be honest, there was _one_ thing he was actually, genuinely grateful to Becca for, which was that she'd never made a thing of his bum arm—of the nerve damage and reduced mobility and of the fact that it, alongside his left shoulder and side, was now about 80% burn scars. In her eyes, it wasn't an obstacle to him scoring, nor a handicap to getting ahead in life—she'd never grant him that excuse. And so, it wasn't. For that, Bucky would've been able to thank her—except that doing so _would_ have made it A Thing. So he didn't.
  2. Besides, his gratefulness was tempered by her mentioning his physique—and only his physique. Basically, it meant that his personality, on the other hand, left a lot to be desired.
  3. Also, on principle, the day he accepted Becca's help, especially in matters of the heart, was the day he gave up on life, because accepting her help would mean _admitting defeat_.



So Bucky said, "It's so nice of you to offer, Beckster—" Smiling all the while, because he knew how much she loathed that nickname. "—but there's no need."

He could've—should've—stopped there. Changed the subject. But 1. he was a competitive _idiot_ , so 2. he felt that changing the subject would _already_ have meant admitting defeat, and also 3. this exchange came in the wake of an _entire evening_ Becca had spent draped over her new boyfriend, who was handsome and kind and a fucking social worker and also Jewish to boot. He didn't even need to _try_ to have their parents eating out of the palm of his hand. And Becca kept stroking his shoulder, scratching at his nape, brushing her hand against his, a shower of small, proprietary, victorious touches that the guy drank in like a parched flower, interpreting them as nothing but signs of affection and support to help assuage his nerves at meeting the family.

Bucky almost snorted. As _if_.

It was devastatingly efficient though, because instead of changing the subject like he should have, he opened his big dumb mouth and added, "I already have my eye on someone."

"You do?" Becca asked, sounding genuinely surprised. Bucky chafed—and it only got worse when she 'genuinely' smiled and went on, "That's so great, Buck-Buck!"

Oh, but she was _good_.

Bucky gritted his teeth behind his own ever-present, ever-pleasant smile. He couldn't back down _now_. "Yeah, things are going pretty well, too," he said brazenly. "I'm about to ask 'em out." He turned to their parents. "Who knows, maybe soon it'll be _my_ turn to introduce someone special."

Winifred and George both looked quite happy at the prospect, but not as happy as Becca, who said, "I'll be looking forward to that, then." She was still smiling—no, grinning. Like the devil. Like she _knew_.

 

*

 

What did she know?

She knew that if she managed to make Bucky feel cornered enough, he would start spiralling and do something dumb. Like lie instead of owning up to the dire reality of his current situation.

And lie he had.

True, it was understandable: he was currently losing at life, and no one like to own up to _that_. Still, he spent the entirety of the following Sunday internally shouting 'YOU DUMB SHIT' at himself. Because he was.

 _But what had he lied about?_ one might ask.

Actually, things could have been worse. He hadn't made up a love interest out of thin air—this wasn't a rom-com. There was someone. Someone who'd caught his eye. Someone he may or may not have developed the _tiniest_ of crushes on.

The guy was a new-ish customer at the coffee shop where Bucky worked. For the past four months he'd been coming in every morning during the week, business clothes on, messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He was small and slender, almost delicate, with pale skin and blue eyes and a mop of blond hair that flopped onto his forehead and had to be pushed back with one long-fingered hand. His mind often seemed to be elsewhere, on the day ahead or on whatever message he was reading on his phone, but he always took the time to look up and smile at Wanda when he gave his order, he was always polite, he always tipped—almost too generously. He always ordered the same thing, too: a simple coffee, black, no sugar, a dash of cream.

In short, he was _perfect_.

So no, Bucky hadn't been lying about there being a someone. He'd just been…stretching the truth a little when he'd said that things were 'going pretty well'. Because things 'going pretty well' implied, well, that actual conversations were taking place. That the guy was actually _aware_ of Bucky's existence, as an individual and not just a figure preparing drinks in the background. That there was more to the situation than Bucky sneaking glanced at the guy out of the corner of his eye while he prepared his order, or knowing said order by heart, or taking a lot more care with it than with anyone else's…or daydreaming, sometimes, about their daily interaction developing beyond Bucky calling the guy's name ( _Steve_ , his name was Steve) as he put the drink down on the counter and Steve taking it with a distracted 'thanks' while already turning away.

So yes: stretching the truth a little.

Or, you know, a _lot_.

He'd been okay with how things were, though. Enjoying his daily glimpse of the guy. Holding the thought that he'd made Steve's morning better with a nice cup of coffee close to his heart for the rest of the day. Looking forward to seeing him in the mornings, especially on Mondays. Letting his thoughts wander about what could be. He'd never actually considered doing anything about it. Not seriously. It was easier. Safer, too. But now…

Now, he had something to prove.

 

*

 

There were, however, two obstacles to that project.

  1. He wasn't 100% sure that the guy was gay. Sure, all his clothes looked tailored, even his coat. And his trousers and jackets were always complementing, never matching. And it seemed like he wouldn't be caught dead in a white shirt—unless he paired it with a vest, or a tie that looked like a painting: nothing but bright splotches of color, flocks of exotic birds, riots of flowers. And the strap of his messenger bag was a cascade of LGBTQA+ flag pins. But Bucky didn't want to stereotype. Looks weren't everything. And so who knew? Maybe the guy was just a very conscientious ally, careful not to leave anyone out of the alphabet soup. Besides:
  2. There were Bucky's colleagues. See, Bucky was a good coworker. Or at least, he was good at following their manager Natasha's rulebook—a sheet of paper with the heading _Follow These Or Die_ —whose seventh article was about 'Clues that the workplace is not a dating app'. The gist of it was that, while flirting with customers wasn't _banned_ , it was strongly discouraged. Officially it had to do with work ethics; unofficially, it was because no one wanted to accidentally encourage creeps. Up until now—and especially after the various…incidents that had peppered his first months working here—Bucky had fully agreed with the rule and followed it to the letter. Now though… Now was a special case. Still, the rule meant that he at least had to ask—and that, if Wanda and Pietro said that they weren't okay with it, he would have to respect their wishes and things would become a lot more complicated.



(How do you _stage_ a meet-cute in a city of 8.5 million inhabitants?)

So he was a bit apprehensive that Monday morning, as he and his colleagues got the shop ready for opening. Pietro was putting the chairs from the tables onto the floor, Wanda was turning on the register, and Bucky realized: there wouldn't be a better moment for him to do this today. That, and he knew that if he started putting it off, he would never actually do it. So he took a breath and, eyes still riveted on the coffee grounds whose level he was checking, he said, "Hey, you know that super hot guy who comes in every morning?"

"Yes," Wanda replied at once, albeit distractedly. "What about him?"

"Okay, so I was thinking of asking him out."

He raised his head when he was met by utter silence. Both Wanda and Pietro were staring at him.

At this point in the narrative, the author feels the need to explain to the reader that when they'd heard the words 'super hot guy', both Wanda and Pietro had immediately pictured Thor Odinson, another one of their morning regulars, two time hammer throw world champion and member of a family with, it seemed, a _very_ complicated history.

Bucky, however, wasn't aware of that. All he got was their dumbfounded expressions.

"What?" he asked.

"Um," Wanda eventually replied, slowly. "He's straight? For one."

 _You don't know that_ , Bucky wanted to protest at once, but it died on his lips when she went on, "He's also very, _very_ engaged?"

Bucky froze. "He is?" he asked, and was mortified by how small his voice sounded.

"Yes?" Wanda said, utterly nonplussed. "To a world renowned physicist? The one who's the most worthy of a Nobel prize—or so he says? The one he crows about _every single time_ he comes in?"

Now it was Bucky's turn to be confused, because in all the times Steve had come in, at no point had he done anything that could've been described as _crowing_. "What," he said.

Wanda frowned. "What, what?"

Which was when it—belatedly—occurred to Bucky that there might be a misunderstanding here.

It took them a ridiculous amount of time to clear it up. Apparently their respective definitions of 'super hot' diverged by a lot.

"Ohhhh," Pietro said when understanding _finally_ dawned. "The _twiiiiink_."

"He's not a _twink_ ," Bucky retorted defensively, by which he meant, _He's not_ just _a twink, he's so much more than just a twink, just shut up_.

"Yeah, sure." Pietro shrugged, irritatingly blasé. "I just meant that's not my type—but whatever, you do you. Go for it."

The green light stopped Bucky's protective rant right in its tracks. He glanced at Wanda for confirmation. She sighed.

"Just this once," she said. "And try to be quick about it."

Bucky smirked at her with confidence he only half-felt. "Oh, believe me, it _will_ be quick."

She quirked an eyebrow at him.

"…Yeah, that's not usually a ringing endorsement, dude," Pietro said, in case her expression hadn't been clear enough.

There was a pause.

"I meant I've got _game_ ," Bucky said, because he _did_. Even Becca would agree. He had The Smile. He had The Soulful Eyes and The Jaw. He had The Arms and The Chest.

He also had The Thighs but, being stuck behind a counter, it wasn't like he would be able to make use of _those_ assets.

"Sure you do," Pietro said.

His skepticism was vexing. But understandable: he didn't know any better. He'd never seen Bucky in action and, what's more, he'd only started working here _after_ Bucky had been relegated as far away from the register as possible. He hadn't been there to witness the flood of clumsy flirting attempts and bad pick-up lines and unsolicited phone numbers and even, yes, unfortunately, creeps that had forced Natasha to step in more than once. Sure, he'd heard about it, from Wanda if no one else—she'd arrived earlier than he had—but to him it probably was nothing but a legend. A story that had to have been expanded on, embellished, exaggerated. A story that wasn't—couldn't be—entirely real.

If only.

However, Bucky didn't have time to correct him. Opening time was upon them, and with it their first clients, and with them Steve. Bucky had to focus on his strategy. Which was simple:

  1. Dress to win, which meant that today he was wearing his Good Jeans and one of his Good Shirts (the red one).
  2. Work to win, by making Steve's drink with even more loving care than usual.
  3. Deliver to win, as in, call Steve's name once his order is done but not putting the drink down on the counter. Instead, he would wait until he meets your eyes, then summon The Smile, and _then_ hand the cup over, softly saying, "There you go."



**How Bucky pictured this going:** Steve would blush, maybe even stutter, and the cup would slip between his fingers. The drink would spill, apologies would be made, but Bucky would reassure him at once, and in between wiping the counter and throwing the paper cup away, he would offer to buy Steve another one, and Steve would say no at first, but Bucky would insist, and he'd say, _Hey, by the way, my break is coming up_ —even though it wasn't, the shop would have opened, like, 20 minutes earlier and the morning rush would be starting, but Pietro and Wanda would forgive him this once, and so he and Steve would sit at a table and talk for hours and exchange phone numbers and go on a date and then go on _several_ dates and eventually they'd move in together and maybe even get married and—

And maybe Bucky was getting ahead of himself. Or he definitely was, because:

 **How this actually went:** He made the order and called Steve's name and tried to catch his eye but…couldn't. Steve only fleetingly glanced up, his gaze remaining weirdly unfocused, absent, fluttering somewhere around Bucky's eyebrows then away. His smile was just as brief. And then somehow the cup was already in his hand, and he was saying 'Thanks' and turning away, and he was gone.

Bucky was left standing there, staring.

"Yeeep," Pietro said, patting him on the shoulder as he walked by. "You got game. _Sure_."

 

*

 

Bucky had no need for Pietro's razzing. He could already see Becca's sardonic glances, hear her mocking innuendos, were she to find out what had happened. But she wouldn't, Bucky vowed; this could still be salvaged.

He spent the rest of his shift wondering about what had gone wrong, because obviously something had. He wasn't being an asshole, wasn't trying to force a positive answer by ignoring the negative one he didn't like—because that was just it: there had been no answer. No pleased or displeased reaction, but an absence of either. It was like Steve had never even _noticed_ that he was being made an offer. So Bucky brainstormed, and brainstormed, and reached one conclusion: he needed to optimise the amount of time they had to interact. He needed access to the cash register.

He had a whispered argument over it with Wanda in the supply closet. See, she was a veteran of the Red Room coffee shop. She knew what _always_ happened when Bucky was at the register. She didn't want to go through this again.

Fortunately, Bucky had two major facts on his side: 1. Wanda was nice and 2. Wanda was a romantic at heart.

"Fine," she finally relented. "You get five minutes." She raised a menacing finger—which, despite her being five foot nothing, actually looked menacing. Natasha was teaching her well. "Not a second more."

" _Thank you_ ," Bucky said, and hurried away before she could change her mind.

Now that she was involved, though—now that she was putting herself at risk—he had to make this one count. The following day he dressed to impress again, with his Good Jeans and one of his Good Shirts (the blue one), but he also washed his hair to do it up Just That Way.

He might or might not have watched way too many YouTube tutorials on how to make an 'artful yet effortless-looking man-bun'.

Worse, he was so busy arranging it one last time in front of the mirror in the employees' bathroom that he almost missed Steve coming in altogether. Fortunately, a whole evening of reflection and a full night of sleep hadn't been enough to bring Wanda back to self-preserving reason. She was still fully committed, or at least committed enough to send Pietro to fetch him the second Steve entered the shop. Bucky hurried to take over at the register, ready and hopeful.

 **How Bucky pictured this going:** He'd smoothly step in to take over at the register and summon The Smile, summon _The Voice_ , and say, "Hi, what can I get you?" Behind him, a metaphorical neon light would spell out: _my number_. And even if Steve didn't notice it, Bucky would take his order and come up with a charming quip on the spot, and Steve would blush but quip back, and they would be off bantering, and even if the—already long—line kept growing behind Steve, people wouldn't get angry because, witnessing this, the entire coffee shop would be shipping them already, and cheer them on as they ran off together into the sunset, and so of course they would all get an invitation to their wedding and—

And again, Bucky might've been getting ahead of himself. Especially given that:

 **How this actually went:** In his hurry to reach the register he half-slipped, accidentally hip-checked Wanda out of the way with a lot more force than necessary, and barely caught himself on the counter, one step away from falling flat on his face. As a consequence he felt—and probably looked—anything but smooth as he blurted, "Hi, what can I get you?" in— _fuck_ —a _normal_ voice, and so half his plan was already down the sewer. He tried for The Smile to compensate, except that Steve missed it entirely, rummaging as he was through his wallet while he gave his order. He barely glanced up for a second when he handed over the bill, his gaze as vague as his smile as it landed somewhere near Bucky's nose, then flitted away again. "Keep the change," he said, and headed for the counter to wait for his drink without a backwards glance.

Bucky was left standing at the register, staring after him, again. Distantly, he heard Pietro guffaw, then get cut off by Wanda slapping him. He looked down at his hand, and realized that Steve had paid for his plain coffee with a _twenty dollar bill_.

Somehow that made it even worse.

He quickly put the bill in the drawer, turned his attention to the next customer, said, "Good morning, what can I get you?"

His voice was flat, rote, his smile absent, and yet the customer in question—some dark-haired, smarmy-looking dude—smirked and replied at once, "Your number."

"What? Ew, no," Bucky said with a grimace, because, _what? Ew, no_.

"Wait, _seriously_?" Pietro said, but it was drowned by Wanda's cry of, "Holy fucking _fuck_ , not _again_ ," that had at least five people staring at her in surprise.

So they got distracted dealing with _that_ situation, even having to call Natasha from her office to intervene when the guy became insistent.

By the time they finally got rid of him, Steve was long gone.

 

*

 

"This is why we have the rulebook," Natasha said later that day, once their shift was over. The three of them had been summoned to her office. "You do know the rulebook," she added slowly, meeting their eyes, waiting for a gulp and a nod of confirmation from each and everyone of them. "So does anyone care to explain to me what James was doing at the register?"

Bucky refrained from pointing out that his not being allowed to greet customers wasn't actually _in_ the rulebook. It was more case law than written code. However, he felt that engaging in a battle of legal semantics wouldn't be the best of ideas. One, he wouldn't put it past Natasha to actually have studied law at one point or other and to be able—and willing—to crush him with her undoubtedly superior knowledge and rhetoric in two seconds flat. Two, it would make her even less well-disposed not only towards him, but also towards Pietro and Wanda. She was already eyeing the latter, not because she considered her the weak link and thus easier to get a confession out of—that would be Pietro—but because Wanda was the one who was supposed to be at the register, and so the responsibility of Bucky having been there instead fell on her.

Bucky couldn't let that happen.

"It was my fault," he said, and struggled not to quake when Natasha's focus switched to him at once. She didn't even need to ask: she raised a single eyebrow, and suddenly he was blurting out the whole disastrous story.

It was mortifying.

By the time the three of them were released and he'd made his way home, he was more than a little bummed. He had reason to be.

  1. He'd almost gotten his colleagues in trouble. Natasha had been lenient, but:
  2. It was almost even _worse_ , because of _how_ and _why_ she'd been lenient. Upon hearing what was happening she had smirked. On anyone else it would've meant a full-bellied laugh. Then she'd said, "I guess as long as you find a way to make sure that today's incident doesn't happen again, there's no harm in letting James try his luck as many times as he needs or wants," in a tone that had been a tortuous blend of amused and condescending and pitying—like Bucky's attempts were nothing but the clumsily cute stumbles of a newborn puppy, like he indeed needed all the help he could get. Which didn't even sound _that_ far-fetched, given that:
  3. Steve still hadn't noticed him. One time could be considered a fluke, but two? Two times started to look like a pattern, a trend. A message: maybe Steve didn't notice him because there was nothing to be noticed. That maybe Pietro was right and Bucky had been delusional all this time. That he had no game, or only the kind of game that drew assholes or creeps or a mixture of both.



So yes, Bucky was more than a little bummed. The fact that he hadn't turned on the light before collapsing on his bed, leaving his apartment in the bleak chiaroscuro of a rainy November afternoon, didn't help. He was too bummed to move, though.

His phone buzzed.

After a few seconds he found the motivation to tug it out of his jeans' pocket. It was a text.

From Becca.

More precisely it was a picture of the most perfect and mouthwatering cinnamon roll Bucky had ever seen. _Quick afternoon coffee with homemade treat from the bae!_ she'd written alongside it. _Hope your day is going as well as mine! xoxo_

For a second Bucky just gaped at the screen, stunned at the unabashed _gall_ —

The provocation of that dishonest "xoxo". The subtle jab at his employment situation, because _she_ was a consumer of coffee and freaking _homemade_ pastries while _he_ was reduced to serving vile industrial products to the likes of her. The less-subtle jab at his relationship status, because _she_ had a fucking perfect boyfriend who apparently could even _bake_ , while all Bucky had was a manager he was half-terrified of and colleagues who mocked him because he was _single as all hell_ —

 _But not for long_ , he thought savagely, swinging himself up, his determination rising like the phoenix from its ashes. _Not for fucking long_.

He still had a little over one hour before his evening class. It was more than enough time to plan.

 

*

 

So. Third attempt.

( _Third time's the charm?_ Bucky almost wondered before crushing that thought. He didn't want to jinx it.)

The strategy was this: maximize the amount and length of potential interactions, by which he meant 1. greet Steve at the register and take his order, 2. make the drink, 3. hand it over at the counter.

It was sound. Even Wanda agreed—especially since it had the convenient side effect of nullifying the chances for any other customer to try and talk to him.

So once again, Bucky dressed carefully, with his Good Jeans and one of his Good Shirts (the dark grey one—he was running out of Good Shirts). He carefully combed and tied his hair, choosing a simpler hairdo so that he didn't end up obsessing over balance or neatness or strands _refusing to stay in place_. This meant he had enough time to prepare and smoothly slide into place at the register when Steve reached the front of the line. He summoned The Smile. He used The Voice.

Once again, the effects were nil. Steve gave his order. Handed over a bill with a quick glance-and-smile. Told him to keep the change. Turned away.

Still, Bucky _persevered_. Ignoring Wanda's sympathetic glance—which felt worse than Pietro's badly repressed snickers—he headed over to the machines and prepared Steve's drink with as much care as he could. Once it was done, he took a bracing breath. Turned around. Called Steve's name. Didn't put the drink down on the counter, instead handing it over directly, making sure their fingers brushed while he did.

Surely Steve would look up now? Surely he would realize that the guy handing over the drink was the same one who'd taken his order? Surely he would pause, because that's not how things usually worked around here? Surely he'd realize that Bucky was going out of his way to try and talk to him? Surely he'd notice the phone number Bucky had scrawled down the side of the cup?

Except that no. Apparently not.

Steve did look up—but like his smile it was as quick and vague as ever, barely there for a second then gone. Then he left, and proceeded to never text or call. Not that day. Not the following day. Worse, when he came in on Thursday he behaved as he always did, down to the enormous tip. Like everything was normal. Like nothing had happened.

 _I guess that's that_ , Bucky thought while he poured the coffee. Dude was straight, or he just wasn't interested, and this was his way of letting Bucky down easy—discreet yet decent and, yeah, a lot smarter and more professional than Bucky had been, because who decided their workplace was a proper spot to get their flirt on? Idiots and douchebags, that's who. Bucky only got what he deserved: the ridicule, the bruised pride, the disappointment, the hurt. Pietro's badly repressed chuckles.

Except that even Pietro wasn't laughing anymore. Which…wasn't much of a consolation. Quite the opposite, actually.

It was a hard week.

 

*

 

It was, also, a hard weekend.

Bucky wasn't quite ready to admit to the full extent of his failure in front of the family, and so he spent all of Saturday dinner at their parents dodging Becca's enquiries about how the wooing was going, full of genuine curiosity and fake encouragements. Bucky bore it all, gritting his teeth behind his smile and clinging to the thought of a time in the near future when he'd be done with his degree, when he'd finally be a registered nurse—because then it wouldn't matter how fancy Becca's law firm was, it wouldn't matter how quickly she made partner, it wouldn't matter how spectacularly she won trials or how many pro-bono cases she took on: he would always, _always_ have the moral high ground.

He would win there, if nowhere else.

 

*

 

That got him through Saturday.

Then he spent the whole of Sunday dreading Monday.

Then Monday came, as merciless as ever. Or so he thought.

He'd barely put one reluctant foot through the door at work when Wanda called his name and made a beeline for him.

"So you know how Dottie and Nat were off on one of their weird and mysterious family reunions this weekend, and so I had to cover her afternoon shift?" she asked.

Bucky blinked at her. "Good morning to you too," he said. "And no, I didn't." Natasha would never take the risk of having him work when neither she nor Dottie were there to run off the assholes, so they never called him in on those occasions. He frowned. "How are Nat and Dottie related again?"

"Who cares about that right now?" Wanda retorted, making Bucky's eyebrows shoot up. Usually she was all too happy to indulge Pietro in his craziest speculations. "What's important is, Hot Twi— _Steve_ came in in the afternoon. With a friend."

"A hella _fine_ friend," Pietro butted in, thus proving that he was eavesdropping.

"…Okay?" Bucky said, heart sinking. He'd thought he'd get at least until the shop opened before he had to be reminded of Steve and how much he didn't want him.

"No, listen," Wanda pressed on, looking weirdly insistent. "They were in line and Ho— Steve didn't look so hot, and Pietro was cleaning tables nearby and he heard him say to his friend—"

"His _hella_ fine friend," Pietro added again.

"—like, 'I've got a headache, gotta take my _contact lenses_ out.' And so he went to the bathroom and did that, probably, and then he came back, and then his friend—"

"His _hella fi_ —" This time, Wanda interrupted Pietro with a slap.

"—his friend did a double take and said, 'Wait, where are your glasses?' And—get this—Steve said, 'Oh, they broke a while back, and _I'm_ broke so I haven't gotten around to replacing them', and his friend went, 'What', and Steve replied, 'What', like, all defensive and all, and the friend said, 'Dude, you're blind as a mole without your glasses', and Steve said, 'No, I'm not', but in a way that wasn't convincing _at all_ , and his friend was like, 'Um, _yeah_ , you are. And I know for a fact that you hate wearing lenses and never put those on in the morning until you absolutely have to', and Steve was all, 'So?' like, _I don't see what the problem is here_ , and his friend said, 'Are you telling me you've been making your way to work blind as a bat _for the past six months_?', and Steve crossed his arms and went all huffy, like, 'I don't need to see clearly to walk nine blocks and order coffee', except that the friend went, 'So _that_ 's why you've been 'tripping' all over the place lately?' and Steve said, 'No', but it really sounded like _Yes_ , except that he was really reluctant to admit it, and his friend was like, 'I'd say that's a relief because we were all worried you were lying and getting beat up down alleys again, or hiding a shit relationship from us—but Steve, this isn't much better, you're getting _hurt_ ', but Steve was all, 'I'm _fine_ ', and then they reached the front of the line, and that was that."

She breathed. Bucky was impressed: he was pretty sure she'd spoken without interruption for at least two minutes straight. She was also looking at him weirdly, eyes wide, strangely expectant.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Am I—" She flailed her hands. " _Bucky_. Don't you get what this _means_?"

"…Um," he said, kind of at a loss.

He was in a funk, okay?

Now Wanda looked like she wanted to shake him. "He _doesn't wear his lenses in the morning_ and he _doesn't have his glasses_. He's _blind as a bat without them_." Another expectant look, and when Bucky didn't say anything she rolled her eyes. "He can't see a thing when he comes by every morning!" she exclaimed. "He never saw The Smile! Hell, he probably didn't even notice you'd given him your number! He's got _no idea_ you're trying to ask him out! _That_ 's why it's not working!"

Bucky stared. "Oh," he said, feebly.

"You mean, 'Ohhhhh'," Pietro said, sounding a lot more enthusiastic about it.

"Yes, that," Wanda said, approving. "This solves everything!"

"Does it?" Bucky asked. "Because I don't see what I can do about it."

He regretted his words at once. Wanda's expression changed. She put her hands on her hips.

Suddenly, she reminded him eerily of Natasha.

"What do you mean, you don't see what you can do about it?" she asked quietly.

Yup, definitely channeling Natasha.

Bucky hesitated. "Well…"

He didn't know how to say it: that he was afraid. Because what if somehow he managed to make Steve see The Smile, and Steve still wasn't interested?

"Oh, so you're a coward now?" Wanda said. "An _unimaginative_ coward, to boot?"

Behind her, Pietro was giving him a judgmental look—and okay, no, there were limits to what Bucky could bear. He straightened.

"No, I'm not," he said.

Wanda nodded approvingly. "Good. Let's plan, then."

 

*

 

And thus The Plan came into being. Here's how it unfolded:

 

**A Short and Jolly Play**

 

—

 

**Characters**

**Bucky.** _Idiot in love_.

 **Pietro.** _Allegedly long-suffering colleague_.

 **The Hella Fine Friend.** _So fine he doesn't need further introduction_.

 

—

 

**Scene**

_Red Room coffee shop, mid-morning. The shop is quiet, only a few customers here and there. One of them is_ **The Hella Fine Friend** _, one of the new regulars. He is sitting alone at a small round table near the window, reading and annotating a printed document. From behind the counter_ **Bucky** _watches him. Then he takes a breath and leaves his post to walk up to_ **The Hella Fine Friend** _'s table_.

 **Bucky.** Hi.

 **The Hella Fine Friend** ( _looking up_ ) **.** Um. Hi?

 **Bucky** ( _awkward_ ) **.** So this is gonna sound weird.

 **The Hella Fine Friend.** That doesn't sound ominous at all.

 **Bucky.** Okay, so we heard you and your friend—Steve? We heard you two talking the other day. About how his glasses broke and he can't afford a new pair. ( _A pause_. **The Hella Fine Friend** _'s eyebrows are now faintly raised_.) And he always tips _a lot_ , and now we're kind of wondering if that ain't by mistake. And the holidays are coming up. So. ( _He digs into the pocket of his apron and comes up with a roll of banknotes, which he holds out_.) Here. We made a pool.

 **The Hella Fine Friend** ( _staring down at the roll of bills_ ) **.** What the fuck?

 **Bucky** ( _shrugging_ ) **.** It's nothing.

 **The Hella Fine Friend.** Dude, it is _not_ nothing. This is a _lot_ of money.

 **Bucky.** It's not even enough to cover a new pair of glasses. We thought— ( _He hesitates_.) We thought his other friends could cover the difference.

 **The Hella Fine Friend.** Maybe, but no. I'm not taking this. I _can't_. Steve wouldn't want me to.

 **Bucky** ( _a bit desperate_ ) **.** He doesn't have to know it's from us? You can say it's just from his friends.

 **The Hella Fine Friend** ( _shaking his head_ ) **.** You don't get it, I _can't_ —

 **Pietro** ( _off-stage_ ) **.** You can! You must! Please, save us from the pini— ( _A sound_.) Ow!

 **The Hella Fine Friend.** …Okay, again: what the fuck?

 

*

 

In the end, though, the Hella Fine Friend took the pool money.

 

*

 

(What can he say, he loves Steve. And he's worried. He doesn't want Steve to, like, trip and fall off the sidewalk straight onto the path of an oncoming bus. Steve doesn't need even more hospital bills weighing on his budget. Just like he doesn't need to pay _20$_ every morning for a shit cup of coffee—seriously, what the hell, Steve? And then you wonder why you're broke?

Besides, given that he now knows perfectly well what's going on, he's pretty sure that, were he not to do anything and were _something_ to happen to Steve as a consequence, it could count as manslaughter through negligence in a court of law.

That's a headache he definitely doesn't need.)

 

*

 

**Scene (extra)**

**Bucky** ( _preparing to go back to work_ ) **.** Oh, by the way, what's your name?

 **The Hella Fine Friend.** My name?

 **Bucky.** Yeah, we can't keep calling you The Hella Fine Friend.

 **The Hella Fine Friend.** …I'm 'Hella Fine'?

 **Bucky.** I mean. ( _He looks_ **The Hella Fine Friend** _up and down_.) Yeah?

 **The Hella Fine Friend** ( _trying not to grin too smugly_ ) **.** O _kay_. Okay, I had my doubts but—yeah, no, I'm all in now.

 **Bucky.** You are?

 **The Hella Fine Friend.** Yeah. Also, my name's Sam…which you should all know, since that's the name I gave you to write on my cup. ( _He helpfully raises said cup to demonstrate_.)

 **Bucky.** …

 

*

 

So it wasn't Bucky's brightest moment. So what? It didn't matter. What mattered was that the Hella Fine— that _Sam_ was in on The Plan.

Even better, that he was an excellent teammate and reported in regularly on The Plan's progress. Like:

How he'd investigated and found out what prescription Steve needed to come up with an approximate price for a replacement.

How he'd gotten the rest of the money from Steve's other friends.

How he'd gotten Steve's friend Peggy in on The Plan while he was at it, because they'd definitely need her help to make sure Steve accepted the money.

How he'd called Steve's optician and arranged for an appointment after the holidays.

How he'd made a card to give Steve as a Christmas present along with the money, complete with the date and time of said appointment.

How all that was left now was to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

 

*

 

 _Is that what the days leading up to Christmas feel like for kids in families that celebrate it?_ Bucky wondered during those few weeks.

He'd known Christians were masochists, but he'd never suspected how much.

 

*

 

The holidays went by.

Slowly.

"Aw, no plus-one this year either?" Becca asked, all faux-concerned and faux-dismayed and pretty much faux- _everything_.

She and Daniel were moving in together.

Of course they were.

 

*

 

Still, The Plan was progressing, as shown by the updates Sam kept sending. He told Bucky, Wanda and Pietro all about how Steve had received the envelope with the money and the appointment information; how he'd—unsurprisingly—tried to refuse it; how Peggy had stepped up to the plate and argued with him over it for nearly _two hours_ until he'd given in, thus proving how right Sam had been to include her; how she'd even accompanied Steve to his appointment to help him choose his frames; how they'd been told that the new pair would be ready in five days; how Steve had gone to pick it up once it was.

On the day that followed that last update, Bucky was nervous. What if Steve didn't take his glasses with him to work? What if something had already happened to them? What if Steve, now clear-sighted, was as uninterested in what Bucky had to offer as he'd been up until now? What if—

But no, no, he couldn't let himself spiral with such thoughts. He had to be patient. He had to wait, and take his chance, and—

And then Steve came in, and all of these fears deserted Bucky's brain, along with the entirety of his processing ability.

See, Bucky had failed to take one thing into account. Well, two things.

  1. how Steve would look in glasses, and
  2. his own reaction to how Steve would look in glasses.



Which were:

  1. even more devastating than usual, and
  2. completely unprepared. So much so that he just…froze. In front of the coffee machine. And would probably have remained frozen there like a dumb schmuck, spectacularly missing his window of opportunity, had Pietro and Wanda—who, true, had invested way too much time and emotions and money in all this to let it go to waste—not bodily dragged him to the register.



Once there, his reflexes kicked in, and he said, "Hi, what can I get you?"

It wasn't in The Voice.

Steve looked up all the same. Their eyes met.

Bucky smiled—again, a reflex. It wasn't The Smile. And yet, Steve blushed. He _blushed_ , and stammered, "Uh, er. Hi. I— Coffee?"

Bucky's smile widened—Steve's blush deepened—and he nodded, asking, "The usual?"

 **How Bucky pictured this going:** Steve would blink, and say, "You know my coffee order?" And Bucky would reply, "Of course I do."

(He might or might not have watched too many episodes of _Glee_ during his formative years.)

(What could he say, he'd been smol and gay.)

(Okay, repressed gay at the time, but still. Kurt and Blaine were so cute! And he'd shipped them so hard!)

(Anyway.)

 **How this actually went:** Steve, looking like he'd swallowed his tongue, nodded. He clumsily handed over the payment—an almost reasonable 5 dollar bill—, mumbled something that might've been 'Keep the change' in toddler-speak, then stiffly turned away to head for the delivery counter. His ears were bright red.

" _Dude_ ," Pietro whispered when Bucky switched from the register to the machines to prepare Steve's drink, "you might actually have _too much_ game."

Bucky didn't reply: he didn't want to jinx it. Sure, Steve's reaction looked promising, but you never knew.

He poured Steve's coffee. Added the usual dash of cream. Stirred. Fitted the lit on top of the cup. Turned around—right in time to catch Steve hastily looking down and away. Like he'd been staring.

Bucky bit his lip to prevent himself from grinning too wide. He stepped up to the counter, called Steve's name—and proceeded not to hand over the cup when Steve turned back towards him. Instead he asked, "Hey, have you seen the new Spiderman?"

Steve froze like a deer caught in headlights. "Um, no?" He rallied, though, and added, "But I want to?"

Bucky smiled. "Great, me too." He put the cup down, then turned it so that Steve couldn't miss the number scrawled on the side. "Call me."

Steve stared at the cup, mouth agape. His blush was returning with a vengeance.

" _Damn_ ," Pietro said.

 

*

 

The next few hours—after Steve had taken his coffee with a string of words that might've been 'I will' in Martian and left—were atrocious. The waiting. The expectation. The apprehension.

What if Steve didn't call?

And then Bucky found out that Steve was a little shit, because he indeed didn't call.

He texted instead.

_Hi this is Steve the customer from the Red Room coffee shop, you said you wanted to go see the new Spiderman movie and I said I wanted to see it too and you said we should go together or maybe you didn't say it but you seemed to imply it so if that's really what you meant I looked up the times at the movie theater closest to the shop and would Saturday evening at 7:30 work for you—although maybe you'd prefer to go elsewhere I don't know how practical this specific theater is for you and also if I'm mistaken and you were just commenting on how great the movie looks I'm sorry you can disregard this text sorry for bothering you and have a nice day, Steve._

Bucky stared down at that…rather long…disaster of a text, confused, until it dawned on him: Steve was rambling. Because Steve was _nervous_ —just like he was.

He grinned, and started typing a reply, trying to aim for something that basically said, _Yes, a thousand times yes_ , but without coming on too strongly.

He was pretty sure he nailed it.

…Probably.

 

*

 

See, Saturday at 7:30 actually worked doubly well for him.

One, because he had a date. With _Steve_. Eep.

Two, because he had a _date_ —which meant that he was taken on that evening, which meant that he had to send a text to his Ma to apologize profusely, saying that he was _so sorry_ but that he couldn't make it to family dinner this week because _he had a date_ —but give his love to Dad and Daniel and Becca!

He didn't text Becca herself. She didn't deserve to feel like he'd felt so threatened by her recent successes that he needed to brandish his first inch of progress under her nose the second it happened. He didn't care about her reaction when she realized that he hadn't been lying about there being someone.

…Or at least he was determined enough to make it _look_ like he didn't care.

Which was basically the same thing.

Truly.

 

*

 

On Saturday, Bucky more or less ran out of his afternoon class the second it was over. He had to: there was nowhere near enough time for him to properly get ready and still be on time to meet Steve at 7. But he made do. He showered quickly but thoroughly, washed and dried his hair, shaved, brushed his teeth, put on his Dating Jeans—which were a lot tighter than his Good Jeans in all the strategic places—and his Fancy Shirt—which had a shimmer to it that Natasha would never have tolerated in the workplace. Then came his Nice Boots, and his scarf, and his coat. He checked that he had his wallet and phone and keys, and he did, and so he was ready to go, and so he went.

He arrived at the theater with a few minutes to spare. Steve was already there, bundled up in his familiar coat-scarf-hat combo.

He still had his glasses.

Bucky was breathless when he greeted him, and not because he'd jogged part of the way over despite the slush covering the ground. Steve was nice enough not to remark on it, though.

They went inside to get their tickets. Quickly, Bucky realized Steve intended to pay for his. However, _he_ intended to pay for both. When he told Steve as much, Steve straightened, and got a _look_ in his eyes, and Bucky, remembering Sam's tales of Steve's 2-hour argument with Peggy over whether or not he'd take their Christmas present, grew worried: he didn't want the date to go awry before it had even started, especially not because of _money_. He offered a compromise: he'd pay for the tickets, and Steve could cover their snacks. After a long suspicious look, Steve took it. Bucky breathed.

So they got their tickets and snacks, then entered the auditorium and chose their seats, then divested themselves of their scarves and coats. Bucky paused when he saw what Steve was wearing underneath. Somehow, it hadn't occurred to him that Steve wouldn't be wearing the business attire he always saw him in. Yet there he was, in a soft-looking sweater and jeans, the result an almost distressing blend of casual—which spelled _comfort_ and _intimacy_ —and hot as hell. Especially with the glasses.

Telling him how nice he looked _now_ would've been weird, though, so Bucky didn't.

They sat down. Bucky settled the bucket of popcorn on his right thigh, and reviewed his strategy for the showing. He'd sat on Steve's left so he'd best be able to feel his closeness. He had options. He could press his shoulder against Steve's. He could take Steve's hand in his. He could maybe even put his arm around him.

…That was maybe too many options.

He was distracting from his fretting by the movie starting. It was bright and lively and colorful—and before he knew it he was sucked in entirely, all other thoughts forgotten. Which he only realized about two hours later, once the movie was over, when he blinked and suddenly remembered where he was. With _whom_. And why.

The movie had lasted two hours, and he hadn't even tried—hadn't even _thought_ to try—to implement any of his wooing strategies. His only consolation was that Steve seemed to have been swept up right alongside him. He sat still, staring at the screen, eyes wide.

"Wow," he said.

"Wow," Bucky agreed.

They looked at each other.

"The animation was so—" Steve started, the same second Bucky blurted, "I really liked the—"

They stopped. Went through the awkward ritual of 'You go first / No, you'. Started again.

Then they were off.

Eventually, one of the employees had to come tell them to clear the room for the next showing. They walked out, still talking. Stood in the entrance hall, eating the popcorn they'd both forgotten about during the movie and talking. Once the popcorn was gone they were still hungry, and still talking—there were so many good things to discuss about that movie!—and so they headed for the nearest diner, where they got milkshakes and a plate of fries to share, and kept talking.

Steve, as it turned out, knew a lot about comic books and animation, and so had a lot to say on the matter. Bucky listened, butting in from time to time.

Eventually, they got kicked out of the diner because it was closing. By then Steve had started in on a rant on Disney's plans to remake all its animated movies as live action, and Bucky wanted to know where that led, so he just fell into step with Steve when Steve started walking.

Steve had a _lot_ of Opinions, and was not shy about expressing them.

Bucky was delighted.

And then, half-way through tearing apart the teaser trailer for _The Lion King_ , Steve abruptly stopped and said, "This is me."

Bucky blinked, and looked around. They'd come to a halt in front of a building. Steve's building, he realized.

"Oh," he said, feeling a pang of disappointment. Despite the diner closing because it was going on midnight, he hadn't realized that their time was running out. That the date would come to an end soon. He wasn't _prepared_.

He hadn't even asked what Steve thought about _Aladdin_ yet.

Perhaps all this was visible on his face, because Steve, who'd been looking at him, suddenly said, "Do you want to come up? Have a cup of coffee?"

Bucky did.

And so they kept talking. Bucky got to hear Steve's thoughts about _Aladdin_. And about a bunch of other stuff. And before they knew it, it was past 3 a.m., and so Bucky ended up crashing on Steve's couch.

It was awfully lumpy, but Bucky went to sleep with a smile.

 

*

 

The following morning Bucky and Steve shared a brunch, but then Bucky had to leave to get ready for a class in the early afternoon—damn his evening and weekend program—though not before he and Steve agreed that they should totally do this again sooner than later.

High on that last thought and on the entire night, he floated his way home.

As he walked, he realized that the Red Room was halfway between Steve's building and his. And even though he'd already eaten, he couldn't not drop by. He had, after all, an employee discount he needed to make more use of.

Neither Wanda nor Pietro worked on Sundays. At the register was someone he didn't know—a blond girl with her hair braided. Probably Anya, the newbie Wanda had mentioned. Dottie was there too, making the drinks as efficiently as always: by the time Bucky had paid and made his way to the counter, she was already nearly done with his order. A few more seconds and she was turning around, cup in hand.

She paused when she saw him. Looked him up and down, taking in his rumpled hair, his Fancy Shirt and his Dating Jeans—both creased. Smirked.

"My, my," she said, putting the drink down on the counter. "Bucky Barnes, are you walk-of-shaming right now?"

Bucky grinned and said, "I don't kiss and tell."

It was only 50% a lie. He didn't give Dottie a chance to figure it out, though. Instead he snatched his cup, raised it cheerfully, and left.

 

*

 

It took him until late afternoon on Sunday to realize that, in between the movie and the five solid hours of impassioned discussion, he and Steve had completely forgotten to kiss.

He was so elated, he didn't even care.

 

*

 

"So, _how did it go_?" Wanda asked the following Monday the second Bucky walked through the door. He would've liked a minute to breathe, and would've reacted with as evasive and answer as the one he'd given Dottie if not for the fact that she'd more than earned the right to pry. She and Pietro had been so supportive, so helpful in the end: he wasn't sure he would've succeeded without them. So he went for honesty.

"It was nice," he said, feeling his cheeks heat up. "Like, super nice."

Wanda smiled brightly. Pietro, for his part, was trying and failing to pretend that he wasn't melting. Both seemed to consider themselves satisfied with that answer, too, surprisingly: they didn't press for more details.

Or maybe they were just biding their time. They were definitely all eyes and ears half an hour later, when Steve came in. Bucky could _feel_ their attention pressing down on him as he prepared Steve's order—now that The Plan had come to fruition he had no more excuse to come to the register—then lingered as he handed it over, accompanied by a smile and a, "Hi."

"Hi," Steve returned, smiling back.

"How was your Sunday?" Bucky asked.

"Pretty good," Steve replied. "Yours?"

"Pretty good," Bucky repeated. He bit his lips. "Got any plans for next weekend?"

"Well," Steve said. "There's this exhibition."

Bucky grinned.

 

*

 

They went to the exhibition. And then to another exhibition—Steve, it seemed, liked art.

After that, there was another movie. Then a protest. Then a movie. Then another protest. Then another exhibition—this one suggested by Bucky, at the Museum of Natural History. Sometimes they got lunch or dinner before or after. Sometimes they took walks.

It was _great_. Amazing. Mind-blowing.

Well.

Except for one thing.

They still hadn't kissed. Or, consequently, done anything that might come with or develop from kissing. Like cuddling. Or sex.

Which was fine! They were just…taking things slow. Apparently. Bucky was fine with that. If Steve wanted to wait, if Steve wanted to be _sure_ , he'd be patient.

He didn't let himself wonder what it might mean, that Steve needed time to be sure when he very much didn't. Instead he told himself—what was the saying again? Good things come to those who wait?

So yeah, he'd wait. Even if it meant having to wait even longer before he could introduce Steve to his parents. Even if it meant that he didn't feel comfortable sharing too many details about Steve, because what if Steve decided he wasn't interested in the end? Even if it meant that, faced with his evasiveness on the subject, Becca quickly concluded that he'd made up the whole thing, that Steve wasn't real—especially since Bucky had said that he working in communication design for a bunch of NGOs, most of them non-profit. Even if she'd been throwing small jabs his way ever since, letting him know exactly how pitiful she found him. Even so: Bucky knew the truth.

That was enough.

Truly.

 

*

 

However, he was to find out that he'd gotten it all wrong.

He and Steve were in a diner early one evening, enjoying a warm drink after an afternoon spent at a protest. It had been cold, and humid, and windy, but Bucky hadn't minded because he'd been with Steve, doing something Steve—well, if not enjoyed, at least cared very much about.

Steve cared very much about a lot of things, he now knew.

So despite the dreary mid-winter weather, he would definitely have counted the day as a good one, if not for how the waitress kept giving him the eye, and flirting, and trying to get him to flirt back. So much so that Steve _noticed_.

"Think she's gonna give you her number?" he asked in between sips of hot chocolate, as the waitress walked away after having asked for the _fifth time_ if they had everything they needed.

Bucky snorted. "I sure hope not," he said. "It'd be one hell of an asshole move given that I'm obviously on a date."

Steve choked on his latest mouthful.

With a cut-off swear Bucky straightened, left hand darting out to secure Steve's cup while the other reached for a paper napkin. Steve coughed and coughed and wheezed.

"You okay?" Bucky asked, once most of the mess had been mopped up and Steve had started to settle down, breathing slowly while rubbing at his chest.

Bucky ignored how much he wanted to be the one doing the rubbing.

"Yeah, yeah," Steve croaked. "Just, um. Date? This is a date?"

"Um," Bucky said. "Yes? I mean, I know it's not as much of a classic as that dinner-and-a-movie we went on last Friday, but it still counts in my books."

"Last Fri—" Steve blinked owlishly at him. "You mean. You mean we've been dating? This whole time?"

"Yes? Why do you—" He frowned. "Wait, you didn't— What did you think we were doing, if not dating?"

Steve hesitated. "…Being friends?"

Bucky stared.

"What?" Steve asked, tone growing defensive. "It's not like we've been—there's been a serious lack of _signs_ , is all I'm saying."

" _How_ was there a lack of signs?" Bucky asked, remembering his painful and repeated attempts to catch Steve's attention; remembering The Plan.

Except that, wait, Steve still didn't know about that.

"Well, I don't know about you," Steve retorted, arms now crossed, "but usually when I'm dating someone there is a lot more kissing involved at the end of an evening."

"I thought we were taking things slow!" Bucky exclaimed. "Or, I don't know, that maybe you were ace and would tell me eventually. Once you were sure."

Steve's expression softened minutely at that. "Oh, I'm very much _not_ ace," he said. "And this wouldn't be taking things slowly, this'd be taking them _glacially_."

Bucky shuffled awkwardly in his seat. "Yeah, well. I don't know what your boundaries are, I was trying to be respectful and shit and—and it's not like _you_ gave me any signs that _you_ wanted—" He stopped as it suddenly dawned on him, because if Steve _hadn't_ , then that had to mean— "I'm not your type, am I?"

Steve, of all things, snorted. "Oh, believe me, you're my type _all right_."

"Then what gives?" Bucky asked.

Now it was Steve's turn to shift awkwardly and look down. "I didn't think _I_ was _your_ type," he said, sounding weirdly vulnerable. "I kinda...thought you were straight."

In three different apartments in three different corners of Brooklyn, all of Bucky's Red Room colleagues suddenly burst out laughing without knowing why.

"I mean, I'm used to crushing on straight guys," Steve went on. "I guess it's become a reflex to make sure it doesn't show. Especially when—" He shrugged. "I mean, you're a good friend."

Bucky bit his lips. "I can be a good boyfriend too," he said softly.

Steve gave him a long, considering look. Then, suddenly, he smiled—a wide, joyous, _impish_ smile Bucky had never seen. "Yes, I guess you could be. So…"

He stood up. Picked up his cup. Stepped out of the booth and walked over to Bucky's side.

"Scoot over," he said, and when Bucky did, he plopped down right beside him. Then he used his free hand to take Bucky's arm and drape it around his shoulder.

"There," he said with another smile, and slurped some chocolate through his straw, looking way too satisfied with himself.

Bucky stared.

Part of him couldn't believe what had just happened. Couldn't believe that it was Steve's body he felt against his, Steve's bony shoulder poking at his chest, Steve's thigh pressed against his. He'd fantasized about it so much: it felt too good to be true. Especially since somehow Steve fit even more perfectly against him than he'd imagined.

Slowly, he reached out with his free hand and took the cup from Steve's hand.

"Hey," Steve protested, "get your own."

Except that Bucky wasn't stealing his drink. He put it on the table, safely away from the edge. Then he turned towards Steve, cupped his face between his hand, and _k i s s e d  h i m_.

 

*

 

They got kicked out of the diner.

Again.

However, as they stood staring at the door after the waitress had slammed it shut behind them, Bucky couldn't find it in himself to care. How could he, when he and Steve were holding hands?

Still, it was kind of freezing. And raining. Snowing? You never knew, with New York slush. But that he cared about, especially since he'd realized how sensitive to the cold Steve was.

"So," he said, glancing down at his boyfriend (his _boyfriend_!), "my place or yours?"

Steve returned his gaze, and grinned.

 

*

 

_So, how's dating the Invisible Man?_

Bucky pursed his lips as he read Becca's text, standing in the middle of his studio apartment after he'd returned from the bathroom. It wasn't the best thing to see in a morning, especially so soon after waking up.

He much preferred the sight that greeted him when he looked up from his screen.

Without giving himself too much time to think, he turned on the camera on his phone and took a picture of it: his bed, its sheet and duvet rumpled, its pillows a mess—and, in between them, the pale curve of a shoulder; a shock of blond hair shining like gold in the light spilling through the window; a hand curled against the mattress, relaxed.

All in all, it made for a great picture. Yet it conveyed nothing but a fraction of the scene. It didn't render the sound Steve's breathing, slow and heavy with sleep, with the faintest of whistles at the end of every inhalation. It didn't reflect the minute rising and falling of the duvet, the couple strands of hair fluttering slightly as Steve exhaled. It didn't echo the warmth, the comfort, the joy it promised as it called to Bucky, urging him to return.

Bucky looked back down at his phone. After a second of consideration, he sent the picture, without comment. Then he turned the device off: somehow he didn't feel like reading Becca's answer.

What he _did_ feel like was going back to bed, to a lazy Sunday morning, to Steve.

So he dropped his phone back onto his clothes, and did.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Bucky probably (read: definitely) comes clear at one point or other about 1. The Plan, 2. his relationship with Becca & 3\. taking a picture of Steve while he was sleeping to show off. He is, of course, a lot more worried about the second and third marking him as a psychopathic weirdo / entitled creep than about the first. His mistake, because while Steve can understand anything that comes from a place of "Fight Me" (or close to it), he's a lot more prickly when it comes to money.
> 
> [Here is the tumblr post](https://princessniitza.tumblr.com/post/185412700696/ca-fic-rose-tinted-glasses) if reblogging is still your kind of thing :)


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